After Her 99th Breakup, He Divorced Me

"If you want to live, I can give you a choice."

"Who is this?" I demanded.

"A spectator," the man replied. "One who just watched your husband agree to throw you away. Annie gave him an ultimatum two minutes ago."

"What ultimatum?"

"'Divorce Elsa, and I'll be yours alone.' Those were her exact words."

My knuckles turned white against the plastic phone case. "You're lying."

"Am I? Ask yourself why he ignored your cancer diagnosis. He's too busy being blinded by jealousy. Her little trick with the ninety-ninth boyfriend worked perfectly."

"How do you know about the boyfriend?"

"I know everything, Elsa. I know he called his lawyer from the hotel balcony while she waited on the bed."

I gripped the edge of the plastic bench. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I remember a girl who played the *Moonlight Sonata*," he said. "A piano prodigy who had the world at her fingertips."

I shut my eyes. The memory pierced straight through my chest.

"Mike promised I would play forever," I whispered.

"And yet, your hands are empty. You quit the conservatory. You worked double shifts to fund his failing family business. Where did that get you?"

"I made a choice for my marriage."

"You made a sacrifice. He made a mockery of it." The stranger's voice sharpened. "The moment Annie returned from abroad, your marriage ended."

"She needed a place to stay," I argued, though the defense tasted like ash.

"So he put her in his private apartment. She called him at midnight. She paraded different men in front of him for months."

I opened my eyes. The hospital corridor snapped back into focus.

"She wore my clothes when she stayed over," I said, the words spilling out. "She claimed her luggage was lost."

"And he defended her."

"He said I was being uncharitable to a guest."

"Then came the late calls," the man prompted.

"She was always having a crisis. A flat tire. A panic attack. He left our bed to rescue her."

"All calculated," the stranger said. "She wanted to see how far she could push you out of the frame. Today, she brought another man into the picture just to watch your husband lose his mind. His possessiveness won."

"I ruined my hands for him," I said. "I scrubbed floors at that diner so he could buy servers for his app."

"And he repaid you by buying Annie a diamond bracelet last Tuesday," the stranger countered.

"He told me that was a corporate gift for a client."

"Annie is his only client now."

I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to go home. Look on your dining table."

"What is on the table?"

"Your exit. Call this number back when you find it."

The line went dead.

I shoved the phone into my pocket. I marched out of the hospital, ignoring the sharp ache radiating up my spine.

The drive back to our suburban house passed in a blur of gray streets and red stoplights. I parked in the driveway. I killed the engine.

I pushed the front door open. The house sat in total silence.

I walked straight to the dining room. A thick manila envelope rested squarely in the center of the mahogany table.

I tore the flap open. A stack of crisp white papers slid out.

*Marriage Dissolution Agreement.*

I stared at the bold black letters.

He actually did it. While I sat in a sterile clinic learning I had stage three cancer, my husband had his lawyers draft divorce papers.

I flipped to the signature page. Mike Thorne had already signed his name in dark blue ink.

I pulled my phone back out. I dialed his number.

He answered on the second ring. "What now, Elsa?"

"I'm looking at the papers, Mike."

"Good. Sign them. My lawyer will pick them up tonight."

"You couldn't even tell me to my face?"

"I don't have the patience for your crying."

"I'm not crying."

"Just sign the damn papers. Annie and I are going to dinner."

"You promised me I'd play the piano forever."

"People change. Grow up."

The call disconnected.

I lowered the phone. A strange sound bubbled up my throat. I laughed.

It wasn't a sob. It wasn't a cry of despair. It was a sharp, biting laugh that echoed off the high ceilings.

"You want out," I spoke to the empty room. "Fine."

I grabbed a pen from the ceramic cup on the counter. I didn't hesitate. I didn't read the terms of alimony or the division of the house.

I pressed the metal tip to the paper.

*Elsa Monroe.*

The signature looked steady. Perfect.

I tossed the pen aside. It clattered against the wood.

As I pushed the document away, the staple caught the edge of the envelope. The thick packet split apart.

A secondary bundle of paper spilled onto the floor.

I frowned. I crouched down and picked up the scattered sheets.

There was no title on the first page, just a list of bank account numbers.

"What is this?" I muttered.

I scanned the columns. My eyes locked onto the name of Mike's startup. The company I funded by working until my fingers bled. The company that finally went public last year.

Next to the company name was a transfer authorization.

*Beneficiary: Nova Holdings LLC.*

*Amount: Total Liquidation of Shared Assets.*

*Date: Three weeks ago.*

My chest tightened. I flipped to the next page.

*Authorized Signatory for Nova Holdings LLC: Annie Lewis.*

He didn't just want a divorce. He had been quietly draining every single cent of our marital assets into a shell company controlled by his mistress.

He planned to leave me with nothing. No money. No insurance. No way to pay for the aggressive chemotherapy Dr. Evans said I needed by tomorrow.

I pulled my phone out. I dialed the unknown number.

It rang exactly once.

"You found the appendix," the stranger said.

"He stole everything," I replied, my voice turning to pure ice.

"He signed your death warrant, Elsa."

"Who are you?" I asked again. "And how do we destroy him?"

A low chuckle vibrated through the speaker.

"Turn around."